


Forty-Eight Hours

by Kaleran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Being gay in 80s France, Blowjobs, Frottage, Hatesex, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Style experiment, Then not hatesex, There's not as much porn in here as you might expect, Valjean has a mullet, alternate title: Javert's World is Turned Upside Down by a Dashing Man with a Mullet, alternate universe- 80s, ft Javert's chain smoking habit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 16:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18855121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleran/pseuds/Kaleran
Summary: A coincidental run in with Javert's least favorite mullet-sporting criminal turns into a grudging truce when both of them are after the same man, but there's only so much of being stood up that Javert can take. Except he hasn't been stood up, not really. It's not a date. Javert doesn't date. It's not being stood up if it's not a date, right?Being gay in the 80s is hard, and it's even worse when you're pining over a guy you really should be arresting again.





	Forty-Eight Hours

**Author's Note:**

> BIG THANKS to [TheLifeOfEmm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm) for betaing and fixing my past-tense grammar errors and with the goddamn summary, and [JarvelousLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JarvelousLady/pseuds/JarvelousLady) for helping me with 80s France settings!!! Y'all the best <3
> 
> For best results, pop on your favorite 80s playlist, picture Valjean with an almost-mullet and Chuck Norris facial hair, and Javert with Dallasvert cop sunglasses and the most intense mutton chops to ever exist. ☮

This is a mistake, Javert thinks.

The thought is nearly lost in the sound of the Friday night crowd of La Riviére. Cigarette smoke turns the air blue-grey, Javert’s own cigarette only contributing to the haze. People are watching football on the glass-screen TV mounted up in the corner, cheering and booing along with their team, while underage college kids try to pick each other up for a quick fuck or a night of drunkenness, the music coming from the small dance floor full of bodies swaying to the electronic beat. In front of him, tubes of neon light brighten the bar in pinks and greens, a tidy stash of multicolored drink umbrellas the centerpiece among the bottles.

Javert throws back the rest of his drink, slamming the glass back down on the counter without much care if he breaks the thing or not.

“He’s a goddamn convict,” Javert mutters to himself, scowl coming over his features. By his watch, he’s been here for three hours. Alone. His hand comes up to pull on his bristly mutton chops for the hundredth time, mussing them further. “Christ. Why did I even fucking offer?”

He puts out his cig and shoves his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket before his mind can give him the obvious answer to that question. He pays his tab with a few crumpled bills before leaving without another word.

—

It was chance that had them meeting again. Chance that Jean fucking Valjean helped him arrest a gang leader by the name of Thénardier. Valjean was by his side for forty-eight hours, the rocky truce they made and Valjean’s wellspring of information the only things that kept Javert from cuffing him without a second thought.

It was the worst forty-eight hours of Javert’s life.

—

The next Friday has Javert sitting at the very end of the bar with a whiskey in his hand and his leather jacket hung over the back of his chair, large reflective sunglasses clipped to the inside pocket where he keeps his badge. Same time, same place, same drinks. Javert glares at anyone who attempts to take the stool next to Javert until it becomes so crowded that Javert’s demand is unreasonable. For the hours it remains empty, Javert guards it like a hawk, staring at the worn leather seat of it and cataloging how many times the tears in it have been neatly duct taped. When it gets filled, Javert begins ordering shots to distract him from the disappointment and hurt in his chest.

It’s not like Valjean was going to show, anyway.

—

It had been too many fucking hours without sleep, too many cups of shitty lukewarm coffee in his system. Javert had been awake for most of a day before he had run into Valjean, before they spent half an hour arguing and swearing and spitting at each other. Then Valjean had suggested their truce: that Valjean would help him arrest Thénardier if Javert would not try to rearrest him for the duration it took them to succeed. Javert had agreed, mostly because the information Valjean had was too damn good to pass up and because any look into his mind might give Javert a hint of how the fuck to catch Valjean again.

It was hour fifteen and they had been getting along surprisingly well, all things considered, even if half of the time they were arguing. Valjean was driving Javert’s two-door Peugeot Citroën, Javert nearly asleep in the passenger’s seat while going over their notes. He fell into a strange half-dream of warm hands and a soft voice and then Valjean’s face was just right above him, Javert’s name on his lips. It sounded right. Javert had reached up a hand without a thought and his fingers found Valjean’s hair, so sinfully soft it could only be a dream, before pulling him into a kiss.

His lips were smooth, his skin warm, his scruffy beard tickling Javert’s chin. Javert hummed a quiet approval when Valjean started kissing him back.

—

Another Friday, another waste of money at La Riviére, but Javert can’t stop himself from coming anyway. It’s fucking stupid. He should stop this, stop thinking Valjean will ever think of him as anything but the asshole cop who put him away. Valjean is nothing. He’s a criminal, a thief, a liar. Everything he said in those forty-eight hours was probably a lie. He’s all that Javert stands against.

And yet, again, Javert is here, cigarette in hand, a reserved stool sitting empty to his right, drinks on the bar. He doesn’t even know if Valjean drinks.

Javert throws back a shot, not bothering to delude himself into thinking Valjean might show up this time. Instead, he tries to get drunk. Tries to forget how Valjean had kissed him, the feel of his hands, the silk of his hair. The feeling of kissing another man who didn’t pull away and slap him or curse him saying God damned him for being a homosexual.

Fuck. He’s pathetic. He put off a case to come here tonight. That’s irresponsible of him, and yet this pull is undeniable.

When he leaves several hours later, worn leather jacket only half on his person because he couldn’t figure out how to make the fucking arms work and his favorite lighter missing, he curses himself for that first fucking kiss.

—

Valjean had pulled away with a start, breaking the kiss. Javert blinked enough to wake himself up, realizing that that was no dream. He had actually kissed Valjean. And Valjean had let him. Valjean, with his muscled chest and messy white hair and damnable hazel eyes. Valjean, who was decidedly and unfortunately the most handsome man Javert had ever met in his life.

Valjean, who had kissed him _back_.

“Jav—”

“Don’t,” Javert had cut him off, immediately scowling. He got out of the car, grabbing his firearm and holstering it. There was work to do, and just about anything was better than talking about what just fucking happened. “Let’s move.”

Valjean nodded in agreement, eyes flicking to Javert’s lips, but said nothing more.

—

Javert doesn’t know how many Fridays he’s come to this bar now. One month? Two? More? Whatever it is, it’s too fucking many. Javert doesn’t know why he keeps coming. Valjean won’t show. He never will. For all Javert knows, Valjean has skipped town already, off running from the law yet again.

Still, Javert keeps the stool next to him empty for as long as he can, watching the door with anxious anticipation, always disappointed when he doesn’t see a head of wayward white hair.

He tells himself he’ll stop this.

—

Hour thirty-four and they were arguing again, notes spread across the table of a shitty hotel room with shag carpeting in the worst shade of orange. Every word had them drawing closer together until they were nearly nose to nose, cursing and spitting arguments.

He didn’t know who started it, but then they were kissing again. Teeth and tongues and lips pushing and taking and fighting even as their hands found each other and refused to let go.

“I hate you,” Valjean snarled.

“Not as much as I hate you.”

Valjean pushed him backwards until Javert’s legs met the bed and Valjean fell on top of him, pinning him there with his wide hands and demanding lips and the grind of his hips on Javert’s and _fuck_ , that hard line thrusting against his leg was more arousing than anything Javert had ever experienced.

“Move,” Javert growled at him, spreading his legs to get more of that friction, to feel more of Valjean against him.

“God, Javert, you’re so—” Valjean kissed him again with a throaty sound that went directly to Javert’s dick. “You’re so fucking impossible.”

“Shut up and _move_ , Valjean!”

—

Another Friday night, another case he should have been working on, another night he blows off to go back to this goddamn bar. To wait for a man he knows won’t show.

This is pathetic.

Javert drinks until he can’t remember who he’s waiting for.

—

The sex was rushed, little more than rough kisses and hurried frottage. There was gratification in watching Valjean whine and cling to him and feeling his cock twitch against Javert’s hip as he came in his pants. Javert wasn’t much better, Valjean’s hand groping and rubbing him to completion through his high-waisted jeans like a pair of hormonal teenagers.

It was the best goddamn sex he’d ever had.

“I still hate you,” Javert said when he got his breath back. Valjean hadn’t gotten off of him, but Javert wasn’t going to say anything about it yet. His hand found its way to Valjean’s damned stupid mullet hair, messed even more than usual now. 

“The feeling,” Valjean said between breaths, ungroomed beard tickling Javert’s neck, “is mutual.”

—

Javert guards the seat to his right, as usual, the whiskey burning its way down his throat, as usual. He can’t focus on the cases he’s supposed to be working on, memories of those forty-eight hours with Valjean distracting him and making him impatient for Friday to come around again, just in case Valjean decides to show.

Missing a Friday is unthinkable now. What if Valjean comes on the one day Javert decides not to wait? What if he thinks Javert has just abandoned him? That he didn’t mean the things he said?

And so Javert waits, whiskey in his stomach and his fingers holding his cig just a little too tight, hoping that this time Valjean will come.

—

Valjean was actually somewhat intelligent, Javert was surprised to find. They didn’t talk about the kiss or the sex, but things were somehow more relaxed. They bickered over the disco songs on the radio, Valjean’s probable but accidental mullet, the appeal or impracticality of shag carpeting. Valjean insulted Javert’s very official reflective sunglasses and Javert flipped him off. When Valjean laughed, Javert nearly found himself smiling.

“You’re not so bad, Inspector,” Valjean said, still grinning. The windows were down, the wind blowing Valjean’s damned mullet hair this way and that, his eyes sparkling with joy. Javert wanted to kiss him.

He didn’t.

—

“Looks like you’ve been stood up.”

Javert doesn’t turn around, elbows on the bar. “Fuck off.”

The woman is quite persistent, siding up next to him. She’s wearing little more than a bra and long, flowing pants, her hair done up in a bushy perm and her eyes dark with mascara. Several long necklaces hang around her neck like some of those hippies Javert scowls at on his beat.

“Seen you here a few times, handsome. By now, you should have gotten the message.”

Javert grits his teeth. How many weeks has he been waiting? Too many, that’s for sure. But he also can’t _stop_ , not until he knows for certain Valjean isn’t coming, won’t ever come. Valjean might show up one of these weeks, and if Javert misses him...

“I don’t care,” Javert growls, teeth bared in a snarl. “Now, fuck off before I arrest you for harassment.”

He flashes the badge on the inside of his jacket and she leaves with a glare. Good.

—

“What will happen after you arrest Thénardier?”

It was hour forty-three, they were watching the building across the street and finishing their cheap sandwiches in Javert’s car, and Javert could admit he actually liked being around Valjean.

“He’ll go to jail, duh,” Javert answered, tapping cigarette ash out the open window. “I didn’t take you for a fucking idiot, Valjean.”

“I know that,” Valjean answered. He stares down at the pile of tomato slices he pulled out of his sandwich, chewing his lip.

Javert didn’t ask what the fuck Valjean’s problem was. Instead, he grumbled at Valjean about wasting perfectly good tomatoes and took their trash to find a garbage can and stamped out his cig on the pavement. When he came back, Valjean only looked more anxious.

“What?” Javert asked.

Valjean didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled on Javert’s leather jacket to kiss him soundly.

They fumbled their way to the cramped backseat of Javert’s Peugeot, which was mostly full of papers and empty wrappers and Javert had put off cleaning it for too long. Valjean’s shirt was lost in the mess as soon as Javert took it off, revealing that muscled chest Javert had been admiring even if it was covered with prison tats. Javert’s clothing was removed in a similar fashion to show the pair of Libra scales tattooed over Javert’s own chest, the streetlights just bright enough to see each other.

“Fuck,” Javert whispered when they were both naked. He sat above, Valjean’s hips between his legs, spreading his hands over Valjean’s wide inked chest. “God, Valjean—”

“Kiss me.”

Javert groaned when he kissed him, Valjean’s hands exploring every bit of skin revealed to him, pulling out Javert’s hair tie to thread his fingers through Javert’s long hair. That time the sex was slower, less hurried but so much better. Javert sucked Valjean off, taking his time even knowing they did not have much time to begin with if they wanted to arrest Thénardier, but Valjean’s little breathless sounds and whines and the feeling of his hands bunched in Javert’s hair was entirely worth it. When he came and Javert had finished licking every bit of come off him that he could reach, Valjean returned the favor, even going so far as to let Javert fuck his mouth even though Valjean had more than enough power to keep him still.

It was so much better than the hotel, even if the tiny backseat of Javert’s little Peugeot was a less than ideal place to have sex.

Valjean kissed him deeply when they were both finished, Javert surrendering himself to Valjean’s tongue, entirely willing to go another round when he could get it up again.

“What will happen to this?” Valjean asked quietly.

The question slammed Javert back into reality. What was he doing, having sex with a _criminal_? Becoming friendly? Trusting, even?

But he tried to think of a life without Valjean and drew a blank. A life where he had to hide this, where Valjean wouldn’t be in reach for an easy kiss or a quick smile.

“Come to La Riviére,” Javert found himself saying, naming a bar he went to sometimes. He didn’t allow himself to tighten his grip on Valjean, to display the fear he felt at even the thought of him ever leaving Javert’s presence, the terror of being left alone again, to fend for himself again like he’d been doing all his life. “Friday night at nine. I’ll buy you a drink.”

Valjean smiled, but it was weak and not entirely truthful.

“Okay.”

—

Four months. It’s been four months of Friday’s spent alone and miserable. Javert has stopped watching the door, only half-heartedly guarding the barstool next to him. The bartender never asks his order anymore. He doesn’t have to.

This is a mistake, Javert thinks for the umpteenth time. This has to stop.

Valjean isn’t coming. That’s it. All those smiles, the laughter, the kisses... they mean nothing. Javert knows that everything Valjean said was a lie, every kiss was fake and Valjean has utterly used him. What a way to avoid arrest, but Javert can’t bring himself to be angry. No, instead Javert thinks about throwing himself in the goddamn river the bar is named after because it only took forty-eight goddamn hours for Valjean to get under his skin, to weaken Javert so entirely that Javert doesn’t even want Valjean to be thrown in jail again.

He was a fool. Valjean probably isn’t even attracted to men. Playing Javert like a goddamn fiddle, using that as a weapon against him. Javert’s homosexuality has been used against him before, but never like that. Fuck. It had all been so good. For once, Javert thought he could have something to himself. Instead, it destroyed him.

He takes a shaking breath, shot glass held tightly in his hand. Fuck, he can’t do this anymore. He can’t wait for Valjean to show up, to smile at him and kiss him and for everything to be okay. Valjean is gone. That daydream of happiness is gone.

But he can’t _stop._

—

Thénardier was arrested, the authorities were called, and Valjean disappeared before Javert could even formulate a goodbye. Before he could kiss him for the last time, brush a hand through his soft hair, see that teasing smile once more before returning to their lives.

—

Of course he comes back to La Riviére. Just one more time, he tells himself, just in case; although he’s told himself that before to no avail before. He knows he’ll still be back next week, breaking his promise to himself yet again. It’s a Friday night and he takes the stool at the very end of the bar, the seat to his right unclaimed. The football game is on and the bar is louder than usual. Javert lights a cigarette to add to his own misery.

Work used to bring him happiness, before those forty-eight hours with Valjean. Now he doubts. He thinks of Valjean, how he had spoken about his life in bits and pieces, how he was only dangerous when he wanted to be, only when he was protecting another. How he liked to garden, how he had a responsibility to a little girl he had never even met, how he wasn’t anything like Javert expected. Any one of the guys Javert’s arrested in his life could have a similar story. He can’t find satisfaction in his work if he doubts.

More and more he thinks of the river the bar is named for. It’s a polluted thing, choked with trash and God knows what else, but it could put an end to his misery.

Someone takes the seat to Javert’s right

“Seat’s taken,” Javert says without looking. He gestures with the hand that’s holding his cig. “Fuck off and find somewhere else.”

“It looked open to me,” the man says.

Javert closes his eyes, that girl’s words echoing through his head from weeks ago. _Stood up_. Yeah, he’s been being stood up for months.

“It’s reserved,” Javert growls. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case I’m not being completely fucking pathetic,” Javert spits. He turns to his right. “Look, the damn seat’s reserved, alri—”

The man sitting next to him has a mess of white hair in what’s basically a mullet, a poorly-trimmed beard, some kind of hideous oversized neon yellow jacket over his shoulders. His shoulders are wide, his hazel eyes familiar. Javert can feel his heart leap up into his throat.

“Hi,” Valjean says quietly, his slight smile hesitant and anxious.

Javert can’t say anything, throat constricted and mind in standstill. Fuck, he’s beautiful. Even in that goddamn awful coat with a mullet he claims he doesn’t have and the wayward beard. Somehow, Javert had forgotten just how striking his is. For a man ten years Javert’s senior, he looks decades younger than he is. Younger than even Javert and handsome as hell to boot.

“You came,” Javert finally manages to say, his voice rough.

Valjean looks down at his hands. “I didn’t expect you to be here, that you would come here again. I thought a week, maybe two, and then you would forget me.”

“I didn’t think you would show,” Javert says. He can’t tear his eyes away.

Valjean flinches, guilt on his face.

“Four months,” Javert says. “I’ve been waiting here, every week. Every Friday, I’ve waited for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Valjean says. One of his hands jerks, like it wanted to take Javert’s before he remembered what the consequences could be for such an action between men in public like this. “I didn’t— God, Javert, I’m so fucking sorry. I wasn’t even sure you- if you were being serious.”

Javert nearly crushes his cigarette between his teeth.

“When have I ever said anything I didn’t mean?” Javert snarls. “Did that forty-eight hours mean fucking anything to you, Valjean? Because it sure as hell changed me!”

He turns roughly back towards the bar and takes a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke that only adds to the hazy atmosphere of La Riviére.

“It means everything to me,” Valjean says, so quiet Javert nearly doesn’t hear him over the cheering of the football fans.

Javert nods jerkily, taking another drag of his cig so he doesn’t have to say anything. His hand trembles.

“I told myself I couldn’t leave Cosette alone yet,” Valjean continues after a moment. “Then I thought that it was all a trick to arrest me. I thought you wouldn’t have come here again and again because I’m just a criminal to you.”

“Don’t fucking remind me of that,” Javert growls. It takes him a moment to remember who Cosette is. Some promise to a dead mom he would adopt her kid or whatever. The reason Valjean was after Thénardier in the first place. Javert’s reason was Thénardier trafficking cocaine and killing cops, which was significantly more legitimate in his opinion.

“Then I was just afraid. I have no other excuse.” Valjean finishes, Javert’s comment ignored. He looks up from the bar, his eyes for once lacking that argumentative spirit Javert has come to expect. “Our truce is over. Thénardier is arrested; I saw it on the news. What are you going to do?”

Javert takes a breath, glancing over at the man next to him. He could arrest Valjean right here, right now. It would be good for his record to arrest another high-profile target so soon after Thénardier. He would certainly be promoted, given more interesting cases, get paid a bit better than he is.

But doesn’t want that, not at all. Not anymore.

Javert taps the ash from his cig over the ashtray, watching it fall into a steadily accumulating pile.

“That depends on you,” Javert says carefully, eyes on the tray. “My offer still stands. I’ve waited for you, right here, every single week without fail, three hours every night, for four months. Sixteen fucking weeks.”

“How long would you have waited?” Valjean asks, voice quiet and breathless. “If I hadn’t come?”

Javert turns to look at him again. Stunning, beautiful, infuriating Valjean.

“I never would have stopped.”

A shy smile breaks out over Valjean’s face, heat darkening his cheeks. “I think you said something about a drink, Javert?”

Javert snorts, failing to stop his own terrible smile from flashing over his lips. “You’ve stood me up sixteen times, Jean. I think you owe me several for being so fucking rude.”

“How about something better than a drink?” Valjean asks, his smile unbound and beautiful at the sound of his given name, hazel eyes alive with possibilities.

Javert sits back, raising a thick eyebrow, smirk on his lips and cig between his fingers. “You have my attention.”

“Do you still have that Peugeot?”

“Obviously.”

“How about I take you home with me?” Valjean offers, deceptively casual. “I’ll be yours in whatever way you wish.”

“And the kid?”

“Sleeps like the dead.”

Javert finishes his drink, doling out the appropriate amount of bills to pay his tab and snuffs out his cigarette. Then he fishes out his keys and presses them to Valjean’s chest, touch lingering indulgently even as Valjean’s entire outfit is an offense to Javert’s senses.

“One condition,” Javert says.

Valjean tenses, anxious once more. “Yes?”

“You’re not fucking getting me in the backseat of my car ever again.”

Valjean laughs freely, the most perfect sound in the world, his warm hand wrapping around Javert’s for a second when he takes the keys.


End file.
